


under the midnight moon

by post_mortem (orphan_account)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kuroo Tetsurou is a Dork, M/M, Nekoma, No Smut, Volleyball Dorks in Love, hey guys kenma is very good like Very, i think, kuroo is a cocky shit but Damn He Sure Is Full Of Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 08:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/post_mortem
Summary: ["Kuro, kiss me," Kozume says then, simply, because it's so easy to confess to this angel what is so difficult to say to anyone else. Because it's so natural to demand attention from the one who always watches over him, tends to his every worry, plants tender words in his ear when he needs them the most.]





	under the midnight moon

Kenma Kozume turns in his sleep. Some buzzing noise has been at his ear for the past few minutes, and something has been shaking his shoulders insistently for that same amount of time. He doesn’t want to address either problem, but his body responds, consciousness bubbling and rising to breach the surface of reality—

“...you still asleep?”

He rouses, stretching his legs out like a cat, then swinging an arm in a wide arc— _smack!_

“Ow! Kenma!”

He blinks drearily, reeling his arm back in. “Sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “What are you—why’d you wake me up? What time is it...?”

Kuroo’s golden eyes come into focus, but Kozume can’t make out much else, yet. “Almost midnight,” he says, voice low and ever-steady. “Come look at the sky.”

Kozume groans. “Don’t make me, Kuro. I don’t want to touch the floor, it’s probably freezing.”

“I _will_ make you. C’mon, you won’t regret it.”

“I’ll be cold. I hate being cold.”

“I know,” Kuroo says. He feels the blankets around him rustle, and—

Suddenly, the blankets, with him in it, are lifted into the air—Kozume lets out a noise of surprise—and hugged close to a sturdy chest. They start moving, and when Kozume looks up out of his blankets, he can only see the self-satisfied grin of Kuroo Tetsurou. The bastard.

He can’t say he’s cold, though.

They reach the window, and Kuroo shifts him over to one arm—and after all these years, Kozume still feels surprised when he remembers that the lanky man still works out, or that he is in fact, still very, very small in comparison—and opens the blinds with the other. The moonlight floods in, and Kozume's eyes widen upon seeing everything—the trees, the rooves, the cars rolling on the street down below—covered in the soft glow of the proud, full moon in the sky.

“It’s beautiful,” Kozume says, because it _is._ There’s silence for a few seconds, so he looks back toward Kuroo, and finds his sharp nose awfully close to his. He narrows his cat-like eyes. “Don’t you dare say ‘yeah, it is’ while you’re looking at me like that,” he instructs.

Kuroo grins and shrugs, with the added weight and everything, like it’s nothing. “You’re beautiful, Kenma,” he says instead. Which—really—he should’ve seen it coming, but still, Kozume can’t help but groan in embarrassment and bury his head back under the roll of blankets.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he mumbles into the cloth.

“Bed, huh?” Kuroo says, and Kozume wishes he could move his arms to hit him. “Didn’t know you were so forward, Kenma, _darling.”_

“Shut up,” he says, which makes Kuroo blow a raspberry at him as he drops the wrapped-up Kozume back onto the springy mattress, blanket unfurling with the movement. The taller man dives back under the covers and curls around Kozume's small frame, who hisses from the cold touch. “You’re cold. Get off of me,” he protests.

Kuroo says, “Yeah, and you’re warm,” and then moans exaggeratedly into the crook of Kozume's neck, which instantly turns a violent shade of red.

“God, why are you like this. I hate you,” Kozume mumbles into the blankets around them.

 _“Mmn_ —I love it when you talk to me like that, baby,” Kuroo rumbles, and Kozume can _feel_ the shit-eating smirk on the nape of his neck. The dirty-blond wriggles, trying to escape from the confines of Kuroo’s embrace, but to no avail. Instead, Kuroo takes a hold of his shoulders and flips him around, so that they’re facing each other. “Aw...look how red you are,” he coos. “You’re just fucking _adorable._ So small, so cute, so— _mmrf_ —”

He’s interrupted by a red-faced Kozume, who’s smacked a hand over his mouth in hopes of shutting him up, but Kuroo only grins behind his palm. The captain tilts his head, up, _up_ —bringing his mouth to the tips of Kozume's fingers—opens his mouth, and then swiftly seals his lips around the digits. He looks down through hooded eyes to meet Kozume's stare, shocked frozen at the sight in front of him, and then moans around the fingers suggestively. _Provocation expert._

"Gross," Kozume says, after too long, his face heating up under Kuroo's smouldering gaze, pliant tongue moving to lick and suck at Kozume's fingers. The captain purrs around him, vibrations traveling down Kozume's digits and through his arm and inducing shocks of pleasure that travel to his very core. 

_Gross,_ he wants to say again, wants to regain any semblance of control in this rapidly escalating situation, but the word gets jammed in his throat, swallowed down by his own responding, shivery moan, when Kuroo looks up at him with his unyielding eyes and his sharp nose and his soft, clever mouth and his perpetual bed head that falls untamed into his angular face, and it's then that Kozume realizes— _knows,_ without a single trace of doubt—that he is truly _nothing,_ nothing but a lost cause. A lost cause, to the stupidly gorgeous man in front of him.

He huffs, removing his fingers with a wet _pop_ from Kuroo's mouth, earning him no few complaints from the latter. He wipes his fingers on the blankets, then presses his palm against the whining again, this time quieting it down effectively. Gold-rimmed pupils gravitate toward the small hand now in between them. 

"Kuro, kiss me," Kozume says then, simply, because it's so easy to confess to this angel what is so difficult to say to anyone else. Because it's so natural to demand attention from the one who always watches over him, tends to his every worry, plants tender words in his ear when he needs them the most.

And because their love is as simple as it is true, as simple as the weightlessness of one's chest upon returning home after a long trip away—Kuroo complies without a second thought, murmuring _of course my love,_ gently taking the hand from his mouth to intertwine their fingers, his other hand going to cup the soft curve of Kozume's face. 

The distance closes, and it's different than all the times before, and it's the exact same. They press together, millions upon millions of pieces falling into place like an elaborate jigsaw puzzle, two mouths and two minds—so alike, so _endlessly opposite_ —melding faultlessly into one, and _god,_ it's perfect, it's perfect, it's _perfect._

Kozume all but inhales him. He maps every canyon and every ridge of his lips, memorizes the near-overwhelming feeling of Kuroo leaning into his small frame, kissing him like they won't live another day, like he's _good_ and he’s _enough_ and he's _what Kuroo wants_ despite everything, despite that he's just—

Just him. Just _Kenma._

And later, a minute or an hour or a _lifetime_ later, Kozume opens the eyes he didn't know he'd closed, releases the handful of shirt he didn't know he'd caught, and has to _remember_ how to breathe. He can’t help but melt into a puddle when he meets the calculating, promising eyes of Nekoma’s scheming captain, his face still cradled in strong, gentle hands. Then, his gaze falls and falls and _falls_ until it lands on Kuroo's mouth, and he sees his lips do this strange _thing_ —for once not ridden with a teasing smirk, no smug grin, no trace of snark and no tricks up his metaphorical sleeve, nothing but a genuine, almost timid smile, and it's so sweet it feels _alien—superhuman—_

And Kozume wonders idly how _anyone_ can see Kuroo Tetsurou as something other than the angel he so clearly is.

"Kenma, _god,_ you're so good, you're so perfect,” is the first thing out of Kuroo’s puffy, spit-slicked lips, his thumb pressing over the dip between Kozume's mouth and cheek.

Kozume falls forward, red-faced, into the warmth of Kuroo’s chest, embarrassment finally catching up to his racing heart. A muffled _you’re the worst_ is eaten up by the soft cotton shirt. Kuroo laughs, twinkling, nothing like the noisy, breathless, wheezing kind of laugh that he spouts around their other teammates, and Kozume almost can't decide which one he likes better. 

“You love me,” Kuroo states, like it's a fact, the cheekiness back in his voice. He folds forward to rest his forehead on the mess of dirty-blond hair, arms snaking around the back to pull them as close together as possible.

There’s a comfortable pause, no sound but their soft breathing, no movement but the shimmering moonlight as it filters between the electrical wires and over the trees and through the blinds on their window.

“Yeah,” Kozume whispers, so, so softly, as if to guard anyone or anything else from hearing it but the man curled around him. _“Yeah.”_

And he doesn’t know if it’s because of the closure of comfortable safety, the dangerous thrill of chasing his heart to unprecedented distances, or perhaps because of the relief which one would predictably feel after a sleepless journey that leads back home to a familiar touch, a familiar _love_ —whether it’s because of this, or something else entirely, Kenma Kozume begins to feel hot tears running down his cheeks, his neck, into the tight embrace of his best friend.

Kuroo says nothing. He says nothing, because he knows he has never been good with words, always better at _showing,_ be it love or hate or math or volleyball or anything else—

So he continues to knead the setter’s soft skin with a sure thumb, weaving his careful hands through multicoloured hair, wearing that strange expression on his mouth—the one that says, _i will always be here when you need me_ and _i would do anything for you_ and _i love you i love you i love you._

And it is there and then that Kozume swallows his bitterest worries, holding on to Kuroo Tetsurou—his angel, his _lifeline_ —under the soft glow of the midnight moon.

**Author's Note:**

> guys this was just straight up an excuse for me to wax poetic on this adorable fucking pairing. im almost certain i cried while writing this. hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it :'))


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